Build a dream
by irnan
Summary: You know it's going to be a bad week when a snowball fight drops you into the middle of a hunt. Literally. At least you can safely say Sam started it.
1. snow falls hard

_You know perfectly well that I don't own any of them!_

_AN: Takes place after "Crystal Ship", cause I couldn't get the opening scene out of my head. I don't know a thing about mining, so please excuse the mistakes... All titles taken from Led Zeppelin's "no Quarter", cause it's just perfect for our boys._

**

* * *

Build a dream**

Little brothers are, without a doubt, the most dangerous creatures to walk the earth. And you can actually say this with some authority, cause you've been injured by most of the other contenders for the position at one time or another.

"How did that happen?" Sam says rather blankly from beside you.

You sit up, feeling rather dizzy, and wipe dirt and grime and snow off your face. "You started a snowball fight, and then we fell through a… well, _that_."

_That_ seems, from the bottom, to be the mouldy planks covering a mineshaft. At least, it should be a mineshaft, but it's only about seven feet deep, so you're not sure you can really call it that.

"This falling through things is becoming a very bad habit of yours," Sam observes, referring to the time you fell through the ceiling of a haunted house in Maine a couple months ago.

"I was dropped!" you exclaim indignantly. "And this time was all your fault, Boy Wonder!"

"My fault!"

"Who started the snowball fight in the first place?"

Hah! Stumped him. You scramble rather awkwardly to your feet, grateful that there are no injuries from this fall, and look around.

It seems to be a crossroads of sorts, which gives you the heebie-jeebies right from the start. An intersection of two passageways too low and narrow to be those of a mine of any kind. An eerie wind whistles through them and tugs at your jacket. The snow drifts down to you in little eddies and whirls from the opening above you.

"Bring a flashlight?" Sam asks.

"Too busy puttin' a snowball down the back of your neck," you reply, and grin when he rolls his eyes. You both move towards the edges of the light, studying your surroundings. Jagged, uneven walls, the floor slippery and covered in little pits and boulders designed solely to trip you up. Sam's crouching down, peering along the north passage, but you'd be surprised if he can see anything more than you can.

Wait a minute…

"What's that?"

Sam looks round sharply at the tone of your voice; then he moves over to your side. A light! A little flickering light moving towards you along the passage, close to the ground, bobbing and jerking unsteadily. As it comes closer, you let your gun fall with a hiss of relief, and Sam lets out a little chuckle.

It's a cigarette lighter, clutched in the hand of a boy of about fifteen, crawling towards the intersection on hands and knees. When he sees you, he jumps, and curls in on himself protectively.

"Hey," you call out softly. "We're not gonna hurt you, kid. What're you doin' down here?"

The boy swallows hard. His face is filthy, streaked with tear-tracks, and his too-long hair hangs in lank clumps over his forehead. His eyes are bloodshot, and in the dim glow of the lighter you can't make out the colour. Still, despite his obvious fear, his voice is pretty steady when he speaks.

"What're you?"

"Fell through the covering," Sam says, jerking his head over his shoulder. The boy's eyes widen. "There's a way out?"

_Where else does he think the light is coming from?_ you wonder, but you don't say anything. You're only allowed to be acerbic with Sammy in situations like these. The kid's afraid, and alone, and judging by the surprise and hope in his voice, he's been down here a long time.

"Yeah, right over here," Sam's saying. "It's not even far up. We just fell through it."

"Fell?" the boy repeats, staring. "Doing what?"

The two of you exchange a slightly embarrassed look. If Dad had seen that little display earlier!

"Snowball fight," you explain at last. The kid frowns at you, disbelieving. "Snowball fight?"

"You want out or not?" you enquire, and he nods at last.

"What's your name?" Sam asks as he reaches you. "Richard," the kid says. "Rick, if you don't mind. Not the other one."

"There's another one?" you ask in fake surprise, and are rewarded by the flash of a grateful smile. Cleaned up, he'd be pretty good-looking, this kid. If a little scrawny. Kinda like Sam once was.

"What about you?" Rick says as he straightens up with a groan, and the sound of joints popping.

"Sam. This is my older brother Dean," he says. Substitute 'older' for 'big' and there's that eight-year-old in the principal's office again, clinging to your hand as Dad enrolls you in a new school.

"So that's why you had the snowball fight?" Rick says, understanding. "You've got a brother?" you ask, grinning slightly. Rick nods. "But Mike's staying with his Dad this weekend. Or this wouldn't have happened," he adds, gesturing at your surroundings.

"Rick…" Sam says slowly, in the calm, quiet, reassuring voice he uses on victims, their family, and the people you need information from, "What did happen?"

The kid bites his grimy lip before answering. "The guys, uh… from the football team. It was just a dare, only the flashlight they gave me didn't have batteries, and I kinda got lost in the dark."

Silence. You feel a quiver of rage run through you; there's no doubt in your mind that the batteries were removed, not forgotten.

"How long?" Sam says, and even he, with his usual calm, can't keep the anger out of his voice. Rick shrugs. "A few hours. I don't really know. Haven't got a watch."

He moves past you both, unsteady, trembling. A testament to how long he's been crawling through these tunnels. He looks up at the hole you fell through, and seems to be drinking in the daylight for a second. Then he looks round, embarrassed. "Could you…" he gestures at the opening, and you realise that while you and Sam can climb out with relative ease, he's not tall enough.

You go first, climbing quickly up and out, cursing as your knees scrape against harsh rock and jagged wood. Then you turn and wait, ready to help Rick if he needs it. Sam boosts him up, and he scrambles at the edge for a minute before finding his balance and hoisting himself over the edge. You pull him onto firm ground, steadying him, as Sam follows you out.

"Thanks," Rick says, looking up at you. "You, ah… you know where we are, exactly?"

You feel yourself grin. Seems he's too proud, too independent, to ask for a ride.

"We'll drive you back to town," you promise.

"Just don't get dirt on his upholstery," Sam says dryly, and Rick actually smiles, grateful.

* * *

"Where d'you live?" you ask as the Impala turns off the main road into a residential area, but the question's obsolete as soon as it's asked, because Nr. 1311 Oak Street is just full of cop cars. Rick gulps audibly in the back seat.

Everyone turns to stare as the Impala pulls over next to the curb, and Rick scrambles for the door. His mother, a dark-haired woman in a long brown coat, currently looking rather haggard, runs past the detectives she's talking to and flings her arms around him.

"Rick, Rick, where have you been? What's happened?" she demands breathlessly, hands roaming all over his filthy face and shoulders, checking for injuries the same way Dad used to when you where kids.

"Mom. I'm OK, really. I'm OK. I just… I got kinda lost…"

"Lost where?" she cries, still clutching at him as if afraid he'll disappear any second now. Then she seems to notice you and Sammy for the first time. Her expression goes from confused relief to suspicion in a matter of nanoseconds.

"Who are you?" she snaps, and something clenches in your chest at the anger in her voice. You shake your head slightly, and mean to say something along the lines of "No one" and leave, but Rick's faster.

"Mom! They found me."

She nods in apology. "Oh, thank you. Thank you so much."

Then the cops wander over. "You won't need us then, Mrs. Heston?"

"Doesn't look like it, Officer," she answers, still holding on to Rick's shoulders.

"I'm sorry, Mom, Officer Johnson," Rick apologises. The young officer smiles and shakes his head at him. "Not a problem, Rick. Gentlemen," he nods at you and Sam, who has trouble hiding his grin at hearing you addressed thus. Then he and his partner are gone.

"That's Dean and Sam," Rick continues, looking up at his Mom as if this were a chance meeting in the high street. "Can they stay for breakfast?"

"Look, I'm sure your Mom doesn't want us around right now, kid," you tell him, but she shakes her head. "No, he's right, it's the least I can do, really."

You glance at Sammy, slightly panicked, but he just smirks at you. The cheek!

No escaping this one, not when the kid looks at you so earnestly.

"Thank you," you say. "We'd love to join you."

"Call me Anna," she says, finally managing a smile, holding out a hand to shake. "Come on in. I'll cook while Rick's in the shower."

"He might need a few Band-Aids," Sam says dryly. She laughs softly. "So where did you find him?"

You look around for Rick before answering, and he looks for a moment as if he wants to run away, but then straightens his shoulders and takes a deep breath.

"The caves," he says. "Out in the woods? I fell down one of the pits, or whatever you call them, but it was dark, so I couldn't see to get out. They heard me calling."

"You fell in.. oh, Rick! I've told you a thousand times not to use that shortcut – you know perfectly well that those shafts are all over the woods!"

"I'm sorry, Mom. I just wanted to get home."

Anna shakes her head at him and presses a hand against his jaw in a gesture that reminds you of Mom. "Just go clean up, honey."

Once he's gone, and you're all in the spacious, gleaming kitchen, Anna offers coffee – which you both accept – and then apologises. "I'm sorry I was so unfriendly just now. These days it feels like there're people lurking behind every corner, wanting to hurt your kids."

"Don't worry about it. We understand," you tell her.

"You have kids?" she asks.

You can't help but laugh. Neither can Sammy, but he's about to regret it. Payback time, for getting you into this. "No, I don't. But I've been looking after Sammy here since _forever_."

"Dean! Seriously."

"Oh, you're brothers!" Anna says. "Let me guess. Road-tripping, and you got lost?"

"What makes you say that?" Sam wants to know, laughing.

"That's the only reason strangers usually come here for," Anna replies, sounding ironic, and a bit… bitter. "You may have noticed that Marsden isn't much of a town."

"Good place for kids, though," you say. "I mean, what with the woods… must be fun for them."

"Would be fun if we were allowed in them," Rick interjects, coming into the kitchen with a box of Band-Aids, which he starts applying to the scratches on his arms.

"Why aren't you?" Sam wants to know. Damn, he's _interested_. You'll never get out of this town.

"The pits, the one you rescued Rick from?" Anna explains. "They're all over the woods. There's an abandoned silver mine out there, and the shafts mostly run into it – or out of it. People say there are close to a hundred of them. Mr. Foyle, who owns the store in town, claims there are passageways that run between some of the pits and the mine proper – apparently so that the miners could smuggle silver out without the owner of the mine noticing. But that might be just a story, I don't know."

At this, Rick shoots you both a slightly desperate look. So the passageways are a secret?

You put the brakes on in your brain with a god-awful screech. Getting involved again! Never a good idea – especially not now. Have breakfast, then leave. You're meant to be heading up to Bobby's, not hanging around here.

Then the phone rings; Anna leaves the kitchen to answer it, and Sam takes the opportunity to do exactly what you've just told yourself you wouldn't do.

"You gonna tell us what's goin' on with those caves?" he asks. Rick hesitates, looking from you to Sam with a frown creasing his forehead.

"That a no?" you say dryly, wishing you felt relieved, cause that would've been so much easier.

He shrugs, uncomfortable. "It's just-"

"If you tell, you're out," Sam says quietly. Rick looks up at him and nods, sharp and brief, twisting his hands in his lap awkwardly.

"Why would you want to be 'in' in the first place?" you want to know. Rick gives you an incredulous look, and you think maybe you should leave this conversation to Sam.

He takes over without even looking at you. "Just ignore him, Rick. Dean doesn't do fitting in. I've never known him give a damn about what other people think."

"Coming from anybody else, that would be a compliment," you toss in, suddenly stung by the memory of all those teenage conversations about being 'normal'.

Sam looks across at you sharply, and the look that crosses his face would, if the two of you were alone in the Impala, cruising down the highway to the familiar beats of _Zeppelin II_, signal one of those infamous 'serious conversations'. But you're not, you're in a surgically clean kitchen in Suburbia trying to help a teenage boy you fished out of a cave in the snowbound woods earlier this morning, so you take a gulp of coffee to drown the words hovering on the tip of your tongue, and Sam turns back to Rick.

"Look," he says, "no matter what the advantages of fitting in, if you, or anyone else, get hurt, they don't really matter anymore, you know."

There's advantages to being a colourless sheep?

Rick must think so, or he wouldn't look so agonised. Finally he blurts it all out, talking quickly and quietly, so Anna won't hear.

"We've just moved here, see. I'm the weird new kid no one knows, and Dad's the new _principal_, which _really_ doesn't help, and they have this tradition that when you turn fifteen _everyone's_ supposed to go into the passageways for a couple hours at midnight and see if you can see him."

Like punctuation had never even been invented. And what's with the italics?

Wait a minute.

Him who?

"Him who?" you say sharply, an awful suspicion forming, heavy and uncomfortable, in your stomach.

"The miner. The one who smuggled all the silver out of the mines."

Sam mutters something that sounds like "I don't be_lieve_ it."

"That's… kind of a long time to be down there," you say slowly.

Rick huffs. "His ghost, idiot," he says, and before you can answer, Anna's back.

"Who wants bacon?" she asks, smiling.


	2. news that must get through

"You never know. We might stay a couple days," you tell Rick as he follows you out to the Impala. "We've been on the road for a while, be good to take a break."

"Cool. I can show you round-"

"Rick," Anna interrupts, laughing. "Let them find a room first! Now, back inside. You've been out in the cold for long enough."

The kid grumbles, but does as he's told. His mother smiles at you both, full of gratitude. Strange that the one time you didn't really do much to deserve it, you get covered in thanks, but saving blondes from werewolves just makes them run away.

"I can't tell you how grateful I am," Anna says. "Rick is… being difficult right now, that's why he took off last night. He's having trouble fitting in, I think. And Mike – his older brother – being away doesn't help. They're very close."

"It was no trouble, really," Sam says, smiling.

"We've had a fun morning," you agree, giving her _that_ smile.

This shortcut might have been a bad idea, but watching her _melt_ almost makes up for it.

Sam gives you a disgusted look as she heads back inside. Damn, you're back to that?

"What?"

"Dean. She's married."

"I know that!" The words come out much sharper, with more vehemence than you meant them to. Man, this is ridiculous. One of the things that helped you make that deal in the first place was the certainty that, once you were gone, Sam could slip back into his normal life, fit in again the way he always wanted to, and here you are feeling _hurt_ about it?

Talk about selfish.

"Never mind," you say. "Let's go get a room, and see if we can find anything about this mine."

He looks like he wants to argue, but you're already in the car, resolutely turning up the volume on _Highway to Hell_.

Petty, Dean. Just… petty.

But you ignore Sam's wince and start up the engine, wishing in a back corner of your mind (because anything else seems disloyal) that the Impala heated up a little more quickly.

* * *

The motel is actually rather nice, which surprises you. Sam lets you do all the talking, waiting outside, leaning against the hood of the Impala. He's got that staring-into-nothingness look again, rubbing his hands together to keep them warm. When you emerge from the office and jangle the door keys at him, he jumps a mile.

Dad would've had his ass for that moment of inattention.

You just smirk.

You're in room 13; Sam rolls his eyes when he sees it but doesn't say anything. The silence is getting a little irritating, but you started it, and you'll be damned if you crack.

But on the other hand, it's your last year on earth, and you don't really want to spend it wallowing in self-pity over all those times your little brother made you feel like your very existence was a waste of space.

"Didn't see a library," you say. "We could start with that Foyle guy Anna mentioned."

"Yeah, OK," Sam agrees. The very nonchalance of the exchange is too awkward for words, but you leave it at that just the same. It's not him you're annoyed with, it's you, but you can't find the words to tell him that without having to mention the deal, which will start a whole new argument, and then your week really will be ruined.

Back outside, you head straight for the Impala, but Sam doesn't follow. You look over at him, surprised.

"We could walk," he points out. "This place is so small driving is practically a waste of gas."

You roll your eyes. "No decent bars, either. Did you see where the store was on the way through town?"

Sam gives a little shrug. "Down that way someplace," he says vaguely and sets off. You tuck your hands into the pockets of your leather jacket against the cold and fall in with him.

"This better be finished by Friday. There's a _Heroes_ marathon on."

"I still can't believe you watch that, you know."

"Sammy, come on. It's like _Sin City_: comic books on screen. How cool is that?"

Before you even say it, you know Sam's going to defend the separation of the two art-forms, and you'll mention animated films purely because Sammy thinks they're kid's movies, whereupon he will cite classics like _The Big Sleep_ or _T__he Third Man_ or even a few of the German ones, and by the time you've reached the grocery store, you're both dissecting Zemeckis' _Beowulf_ and everything's back to normal.

Inside the store, it's dim and cool, and you move past shelves stacked with biscuits and chocolate, tinned fruit and bottles of alcohol, towards the back, where a man is sitting with a foot up on a plastic crate, reading the newspaper.

"Mr. Foyle?" Sam asks.

The newspaper closes with a rustle, revealing a man in his sixties, still broad, but with the look of a fighter who's gone to fat a little. It surprises you; you were expecting a thinner man, with glasses, maybe, quiet and soft-spoken and… well, geeky.

"Call me Jim," he says, and Sam shifts beside you. The memory of another man who bore that name still hurts, even after nearly two years. "What can I do for you boys?"

Friendly, jovial even, welcoming. But the look in his eyes is calculating, sizing you up.

"Well, my brother Sam and I are road-tripping," you explain, "and we heard in town that you might know a few stories about the mine in the woods? Urban legends are a bit of a hobby of mine."

Jim nods slowly. "The Carter mine," he murmurs, looking into the distance for a minute. Then his gaze snaps back to you. "Got a name?"

You can't help but grin. "Dean," you tell him.

"No last one?"

"Not this week," Sam says.

He laughs out loud. "I like you two already. What will you do with it?"

"With the mine?" you say blankly.

"No, boy. With the story of the mine. What will you do with it? Publish it? Analyse it?" the contempt in his voice as he speaks the last two sentences lets you know what your answer shouldn't be.

"Why do you ask?" Sam wants to know.

Jim snorts. "Some reporter's stayin' in town, lookin' to write a book about stories like this one. I told him, no way. Write about crap like kids waking up in the woods with a kidney missing, but don't come up here and insult what everyone in this town knows to be true. Storytelling, it's a gift. It can't be learned. It's either been given you… or not. So. What are you going to do with the story?"

For a moment neither you nor Sam can answer. As the man spoke, his voice lost the rough hillbilly accent and became sharper, more polished. As for what he actually said… whoever, whatever, this Jim Foyle guy is, he _knows._

"This morning, we helped a scared kid out of one of the shafts leading into the mines. He told us about a ghost that's meant to be down there."

Jim smiles slowly. "Did he now. But that doesn't answer my question."

Sam looks at you and shrugs, as if to say, _might as well finish what you started_. "We hunt them," you say baldly.

Jim nods slowly, thoughtfully, studying you again. You get the impression he does everything like that, careful, thoughtful, taking his time. Then he stands up. "Not too early for you boys to drink, is it? There's a pub just round the corner."

Not that you're complaining about the free food, but if everyone in this town is going to insist on wining and dining you, then this'll be a very long stay.

* * *

It's an Irish pub, so cliché it's almost painful. Shamrocks and leprechauns everywhere, _The Dubliners_ playing loud as the speakers can manage, and you could live out the rest of your life in perfect contentment if you never saw the colour green again.

But the cider is just fantastic.

Jim leans back in his chair and takes a long gulp before asking, "So that kid… Rick Heston?"

"Good guess," Sam laughs.

"None of the other kids would tell anyone about the mine," Jim explains. "They think it's their little secret." He gives a derisive snort to show what he thinks of that.

"It's a kind of ritual, right?"

"That it is. For reasons I'll never understand. Some things shouldn't be played with like that."

"Tell us about it."

Jim takes a gulp of cider first, as if to fortify himself.

"Well. There's not actually all that much to tell. Carter was the man who owned the mine, rich and powerful and ruthless, by all accounts. The men who worked for him were paid a pittance and worked in terrible conditions for very long hours. The town here was one of the poorest in the state in those days, despite the amount of silver coming out of the mine. Then, one day, one of the miners – Harry Smith – had an idea. The shafts had been made into the hillside months ago to help with the circulation of the upper tunnels. He suggested they make a couple more, connect them with the mine proper and smuggle silver out, a little at a time."

"They actually managed that? Without anyone noticing?" You're impressed. Very impressed.

Jim nods, chuckles, takes another drink. "They were good. Still, it didn't last long. Harry Smith was the leader, the whole scam being his idea, and he had a pretty young wife and a small son. Now, one of the other miners had been after Lisa Smith since they'd been children, and-"

"He sold them out," you interrupt, understanding. It's the oldest story in the world, after all.

Jim sighs, a deep regretful sigh. "He did. They were always careful not to take too much, but Carter was smart, and sooner or later he noticed something was up. The miner went to Carter, showed him the extra shafts. Then he led him to where Harry was working, hiding the latest stash. Carter didn't hesitate, just killed Harry. Shot him dead right there in the woods. Didn't even think about taking it to the courts." He heaved another sigh. "The things we do for love."

Silence, then. You and Sammy know all about the things people do for love.

The good ones, anyway.

At last Sam says quietly, "And the miner? The traitor?"

Jim looks up, and gives a smile caught between bitterness and satisfaction. "Carter didn't like having witnesses to his dirty deeds."

"And Carter himself, did he walk?"

"No, boy. Hell, no. Carter was a good shot, but he didn't stand much of a chance in a proper fight. They killed each other."

"So…" you frown into your cider for a time, thinking it through. "So the town kept it quiet because of the silver? The stealing?"

Jim raises his glass to you in answer.

"They could've pretended they'd gotten lost in the forest, or fallen off a cliff, or anything," Sam muses. "What about the bodies?"

"Found, and buried out in the woods by Harry's friends," Jim replies. "Wouldn't do for anyone to spot the gunshot wounds."

You look up sharply at his words. At last something more concrete than stories and kid's rituals. Now you've got a trail to follow, something to _do_. A thrill rushes through you: the thrill of the hunt, the chase.

"You know where?"

But before Jim can answer, a young man about your own age comes up to you, tall and thin, with pale blonde hair, blue eyes and an obnoxious attitude. Also an _anorak_. You can't quite believe you're using the word, but he's the epitome of the city-slicker.

"Ah, Mr. Foyle. May I buy you a drink?"

"Mr. Peterson. No, thank you."

Definite hostility there. But it doesn't put the guy off in the least, so who else could he be but the reporter?

"I don't believe I've meant your friends… Al Peterson, _Boston Herald_. I'm working on a book of folklore… ghoulies and ghosties, that sorta thing. If you know any stories…?"

"Afternoon," you say, polite but dismissive, and take neither the proffered hand nor the offer. Al chuckles. "I see Mr. Foyle has sabotaged my reputation. Well, gentlemen, let me leave you my card just the same… and my invitation to dinner."

And he drops his business card onto the table and saunters off back to his table – just _within_ earshot.

Sammy is laughing silently into his cider. You raise an eyebrow at him, and he surfaces, still grinning.

"I used to have to deal with smarmy little bastards like that all the time at Stanford. And every time, I'd sit back and imagine the look on your face before you'd send them packing."

Suddenly, the absurdly, ridiculously good mood that was responsible for that snowball fight by the roadside early this morning comes back in full force. Your turn to disappear into your cider-glass, at least till you get rid of that smile.

"You had a fight?" Jim's voice, filled with distressingly accurate insight, pulls you both back to the matter at hand.

"Uh…" you say, not knowing how to answer that one.

"I screwed up a bit when I was a kid," Sammy explains.

"Everyone's prerogative," Jim tells him. "And we all say 'I should have known better' when we're older and wiser. Now then. Lets head back to the store, and I'll get you a map – you can read them, right?"

His eyes are twinkling, but that's still something of an insult. "Dad was in the Marines," you tell him, mock-offended. "We'll manage."

"Marines, eh?" Jim says respectfully as you all stand up. "I was just plain old Army… he serve in 'Nam?"

"Far as we know," you say dryly.

"Dad never talked about his actual tours," Sam's explaining. Jim asks another question as they head out the front door, but you don't catch it. You're looking back at Peterson, and he's watching you all with an almost hungry look in his eyes. Then he seems to realise he's been caught out, and raises his glass to you with a sly smile.


	3. steel that's bright and true

True to his word, Jim furnishes you with a map, 'X' included, and adds the encouraging words that the burial site was never exactly pinpointed; they've got it down to about fifty square feet.

"Hope you boys got stamina," he remarks.

There's all _sorts_ of things you could say to that.

"Have there ever been any deaths, or just sightings?" Sam says hurriedly, before you can select a comment from the gathering throng.

"Everyone's seen 'em," Jim says. His accent's slipped a bit again. "The kids go in the entrance to the mine proper, with a flashlight and directions to the shaft" – he taps the 'X' marked in red ink on the map – "and when they come out, there they are. Harry holdin' the sacks, and the traitor behind Carter in his fine suit with the pistol in his hand… but the last death was decades ago, when I was a boy. New kid in town."

There's a moment's silence as you send up thanks to the Fates for having Sam start that snowball fight.

"Rick wouldn't have known," you say softly, not wanting to make it a question because you're not sure you want an answer. "All the other kids would've sat tight in the shaft and waited for morning, but Rick would've climbed out and got caught in the middle."

Jim's silence is answer enough.

Beside you, Sam swears. Then he raises his head, looks straight at Jim. "I want names," he says.

So do you. Also a baseball bat and a nice, quiet, remote stretch of forest where the screams won't be heard.

But… "It can wait a couple days," you say firmly. "First light tomorrow, we go out there, then deal with them."

"What will you do?" Jim wants to know.

For a moment Sam looks furious; then he gives a helpless shrug, deflating as the anger runs out of him.

"I don't know," he admits. "But they nearly killed him. And they knew what they were doing. It wasn't some prank gone wrong. They _knew_."

The quiet intensity in his voice prompts the forming of a certain suspicion in your mind, but you don't give voice to it. Yet.

Instead, you look over at Jim. He's smiling. Again.

"Good men," he says softly. "Both of you. I'll get you those names. Now though, if it's not too much trouble, I have a store to run."

There's not much you can say to that abrupt dismissal other than "Thank you" and "Bye".

But still, you turn back at the door. "Jim," you ask, unable to stop yourself, "who are you?"

He takes a step towards you, and straightens up to his full height. In the dimness of the store, the shadows play strangely across his face, and play tricks on your eyes too, because he seems even taller suddenly, clothed in black, imposing and majestic as he answers.

"A storyteller, Dean Winchester," he replies, and then Sammy catches your elbow and steers you out of the doorway and into the crisp wintry sunlight, already fading as evening draws near.

When you glance back over your shoulder at Jim, he's shrunk again, an old fighter stacking shelves in a small-town grocery store.

* * *

"Jim was right about the deaths," Sam says, looking up from his laptop. "The last one was in '48. There's not much here about it. All sounds kinda furtive."

"Cover-up," you murmur, staring out into the parking lot. Al Peterson is running around trying to get cell reception, but it doesn't seem like he's having much luck.

On any other day, the sight would amuse you immensely.

Today, though, you turn away from the window and walk over to sit opposite Sam, deciding frontal attack is the best strategy.

He looks up at you curiously, and then grimaces. "Oh, no."

"What?"

"You've got that look."

"What look?"

"That look. The _Sammy-the-principal-just-called-what's-all-this-about-breaking-someone's-nose_ look."

"Oh. That look."

"So, what did I do?"

"That would be the question, wouldn't it?"

"Sorry, what?"

"Did you get hazed?"

Sam's jaw drops. "What! No!" He's telling the truth. You can always tell.

"So just now, in the store…"

Sammy grimaces again. "Right. That."

"Sammy!"

"One of my friends did," he finally admits. "Actually, 'haze' makes it sound like it was pretty harmless… he spent a month in the hospital. All during the vacation, and off-campus, so no one could do anything about it if he didn't press charges. Which he didn't."

For once, you're speechless. Not press charges? "Crap," you say at last.

"Yeah," Sam agrees, sounding rather bitter. "You know the part I really couldn't understand? How he could let other people do that to him, you know? Be that desperate-"

"To fit in?"

He nods slowly, but there's a hint of defiance, of the old teenage stubbornness, in his glance.

You're not having this argument. Not again. Not now. The middle of a hunt is not the best time to start _any_ argument. Let alone one as loaded as this.

"Anything about Carter?" you ask, steering clear of dangerous waters.

"Uh, yeah. Mountaineering accident. Although the spot Jim's marked isn't really in dangerous territory. It's not even that far up the mountainside."

"Yeah, that's the usual result of falling down it, Sammy."

"Oh, bite me."

* * *

The next morning, you set off as early as possible. The Impala rumbles up the winding mountainside road for about five miles before you come to the gravel turnoff that leads to the main entrance to the mine. 

Parking the car takes a bit of effort, as the snow gets quickly deeper once you leave the road. You sink into it up to about halfway up your calves when you get out. Sam grabs the rucksack with the provisions and tosses you the shovels, and you're good to go.

It's weary going, trudging up this century-old road in the thick wet snow. The forest around you is hushed and quiet. The further up you go, under the canopy of trees, the less snow lies on the ground, although here and there you have to climb over a fallen branch, snapped off under the weight of the snow.

You've been walking maybe twenty minutes in companionable silence when Sam, who took point, stops.

"Guess they took Rick the long way round," he says.

A line of tracks emerges from the trees just ahead of you and joins the road you've been following. There must have been at least ten kids there to make that wide and deep a trail through the snow.

"They'll get theirs," you promise quietly.

Now following the trail they left, the going is much quicker. You reach the mine barely fifteen minutes later, flushed with exertion, and drop the shovels with a sigh of relief. The entrance to the mine faces south-west; you pull Jim's map out and turn till you're looking north. Sam stands studying the mine, hands on hips.

"Reminds me of Blackwater Ridge," he says.

"Must you?"

"Dude. You called a centuries-old extremely dangerous supernatural monster a bitch."

"You actually _heard_ that?"

"Echoes, Dean. It was all I could do to keep a straight face."

"Well, I had to yell something. OK, we oughta be heading north-west, so along there." You gesture in the relevant direction; it doesn't look too bad. Looks like you'll be walking on a level with where you are now, more or less.

"Isn't that back towards the town?"

"Yeah. Also the direction the main tunnels in the mine run in. We're a lot higher up than we were, though. Which is a good thing, because the woods between up here and the roadside where we found Rick are pretty much impassable – there's a steep drop down to the road. Didn't you notice the cliff on the drive?"

"I was asleep," Sammy mutters.

"Wakey wakey," you retort, picking up the shovels again.

It gets steadily brighter as the morning draws on, the sun appearing behind heavy snow-laden clouds. Thank God. They had been worrying you a bit; you'd really be in trouble if it started to snow while you were up here. Every now and then, you catch a glimpse of the valley below you through the trees: narrow but short, in this direction at least, quickly opening out into smaller hills and ever-wider plains. In the snow, it's harder to make out the few towns and villages nestled in the curves of the dark, winding road, but sometimes a glint of sunlight on glass or the hood of a car winks at you.

Up here, it's peaceful, beautiful, untouched and untarnished by man, or even time itself. These hills seem eternal as the stars. Dad had always loved mountain country; for the first time, you're starting to understand why.

"No wonder Dad loved it," Sam says quietly from behind you. "Why didn't we notice when we were kids?"

"Don't know, Sammy. Maybe you just need to be older before you can appreciate them."

"In need of peace and comfort, you mean," Sam says softly.

"Yeah," you answer in the same hushed tones. Anything louder would seem almost sacrilegious. You wouldn't have realised it yourself, but that's exactly what these mountains are: a balm for the soul. Especially one as battered as yours, as Dad's.

Then Sam leans closer slightly and breathes, barely audible, "I think someone's following us."

You glance up sharply, annoyed that you didn't catch on. "Not those kids?"

"It's Monday. They're all in school. No, my money's on the reporter."

"I suppose we could leave him tied to a tree or something," you mutter.

"Dean, he'd freeze to death up here."

"We can't let him see what we're up to!"

"Why not?"

Actually, the idea has merit. And now you can hear him, stamping clumsily up the trail behind you, following in your tracks. Then he stops; he must have spotted you both through the trees.

"It might just scare him enough to dissuade him from writing that book," Sam points out. "Least we can do for Jim, really."

_Lots _of merit.

"Better keep going," you say, a little more loudly than you need to, and Sammy grins.

It's another hour before you reach the place Jim marked on the map. There's not even a clearing, but the mine shaft is easily found, as it's four foot across, and surrounded by a low wall of rock. It's not very deep, and far easier to climb out of than the one you fell down yesterday.

The first thing you both do is raid Sam's rucksack for sandwiches, and slabs of chocolate, and the thermos of hot tea. Peterson crouches behind a small hillock, or maybe a bush, a few yards off once he arrives. He's not hard to spot; the black jacket he's wearing stands out starkly against the snow, as well as making him look like the Michelin man. You're impressed he managed to keep up as well as he did.

Once you're done eating, you stand up to take a proper look around the 'fifty square feet'. Unfortunately, in this weather…

"It could _all_ be unholy ground for all we can tell," Sam exclaims.

There's no denying it. Three ghosts whose remains are buried, if not in the same grave, then at least very close together, ought to generate some pretty evil vibes. But under all this snow…

"Why didn't we think of this before we came out here?" you mutter.

"Even if we had," Sam says, "we still would have come."

True.

"OK. Let's start with the trees," you suggest, remembering Molly and her yearly torment.

Sam nods agreement. Just as he moves past you, though, there's a rustle of snow and branches from behind you both, and when you turn, smartass remark about following people through the woods in this weather already on your lips, Peterson is standing opposite you with a pistol pointing into your face.

"Thief," he says, his sharp New York accent replaced by perfect accent-less Queen's English. "Put the bag down, Smith. And step away from my mine."


	4. ask no quarter

"What!"

It's not the most eloquent of comments, but you defy anyone else to come up with a better one when looking down the muzzle of a pistol. It's an antique, like the one you got for Dad in Salvation, and it's not exactly in mint condition. If Peterson pulls the trigger, it'll probably explode.

"He's possessed," Sam says quietly. "By Carter."

As usual, fear and anger make you snappy.

Well, snappier.

"You know, Sammy, if it weren't for you, I never would have known," you toss out. "Listen, if he tries firing that thing, there's no telling what'll happen."

Sam moves away from you slowly, towards Carter, who glances at him, but doesn't take the pistol off you.

The hell?

"Didn't you hear me, Smith?" Carter demands with Petersons' voice, and you gently drop the rucksack.

"Don't do this, Carter," you say quietly, keeping calm, hands in the air where he can see them. "Let's go back to town, yeah? We can sort this out properly, in court."

"You and your insistence on your so-called rights. They're meaningless right now, Smith. Court! I need no court. Even if Bill here hadn't told me about the other times, I've caught you red-handed! What's in the bag?"

"Salt and lighter fluid," you tell him at the same time as Sam exclaims, "He thinks I'm the traitor? I'm _not_ the traitor!" in precisely the same voice he used to use for saying things like _I didn't do it, Dean!_

"It's the haircut," you say. "There's something shifty about that haircut."

"Enough!" Carter barks, cutting off Sam's answer. "Enough. Hand me my silver, Smith."

"Why should I?" you challenge. "You're going to kill me no matter what I do."

Carter twists Peterson's face into an ugly sneer. "True. And then, of course, we shall have to… pay our condolences… to your lovely wife. She's got quite a figure, Bill tells me."

Strange that an insult to a woman over a century dead can still make you so angry. Carter sees it in your face; he smirks triumphantly.

"You brought this on yourself, you know," you tell him in a sudden flash of inspiration. Keep him talking. Keep him distracted. Give Sam a chance to catch him off-guard.

"What?" Carter snarls, contemptuous and curious all at once.

"The way you treat your workers? The pennies you pay them? That's what caused this. Harry Smith was just trying to protect his family. To make sure they had a better life than his. To give his kid a proper future."

Suddenly, Carter starts to laugh. An awful sound, that dead man's laughter wrung forcibly out of Peterson's throat.

"And here your own brother betrayed you," Carter sneers. "Cain and Abel, Smith. A fine pair. Cain and Abel."

For a moment, both you and Sam are frozen with shock. His own brother? But as Peterson's body convulses with Carter's laughter, Dad's training takes over again, and the minute the pistol's mouth dips just the slightest way towards the ground, Sam lunges. In the snow it's near impossible to move very fast; it's his reach that allows him to catch the pistol out of Peterson's hands and knock him out with it. Shotgun at the ready, you join him.

Carter, though, makes no further appearance.

Looking down at Peterson, you feel sick to your stomach. Bad enough Bill should have betrayed his friends, sold out his entire town, but to be an accessory to the murder of his own brother?

And there it is back, the fist that clenched around your guts for all of last year.

But Sam pulls you from your bloodstained musings by saying, "Dean – look," and moving away. You follow him, up the short slope to the hillock Peterson was crouching behind before he got himself possessed.

Except it's not a hillock. Or a bush.

Sam sweeps the snow off a section of it with his forearm, and you see the rocks underneath, piled in a long, low, wide mound.

It's a cairn.

"Idiot was sitting right on top of them," you say, catching up the shovels.

By the time you've swept the snow off the top, your sleeves and gloves are soaking. Prying the rocks of the frozen outer layer apart is the hardest bit, and takes longest, the forest filling with the _clang_ and _crash_ of shovel-blade on rock. Once that's done, though, everything gets easier: now it's just a matter of lifting the rocks off one by one until you've uncovered the bodies.

You haven't been at it long when Peterson starts to wake up.

"Think we should perform an exorcism?" Sam wonders, watching him.

You exchange shovel for shotgun and shoot the obnoxious little git in the chest. He's wearing more layers than an onion, so it won't do much harm, but it does knock him out again.

It also expels Carter with a terrible shriek, the ghost leaving Peterson in a billow of demon-like smoke that quickly evaporates.

Behind you, Sam chokes back his laughter. "I guess that takes care of him for a while," he observes.

"A little help here?" you say pointedly. The two of you drag him over to a tree and prop him up against it, out of the deepest snow. Its late morning by now, and much warmer than when you left town. You hang your jacket over a branch before getting back to the cairn.

Carter attacks you twice more, but its noon, bright sunlight filling the forest and glittering in the snow, so he's not exactly at his strongest. The first time, he doesn't even get close to you. The second, all you feel is something hitting you hard in the chest, like a barrel-full of rock salt, and then you're lying on your back in the snow, and Carter is slowly taking shape in front of you, an emaciated figure dressed in black. There's a bang as Sam's shotgun goes off, and he's gone before he's even fully formed.

"Pretty pathetic, actually," you say as Sam pulls you out of the snowdrift.

"You're more likely to catch pneumonia than die by ghost," Sammy agrees. Is there a hint of worry in his voice?

"Stop fussing, Sam," you tell him firmly. "Why always me, anyhow?" you add plaintively.

"Cause he thinks you're the one making off with his money," Sam says dryly. "Whatever else he might have been, he's a good judge of character."

Ungrateful little sod.

By early afternoon you're looking down at three desiccated corpses, lying side-by-side in a shallow pit surrounded by a three-foot high ring of stones.

The one on the right is wrapped in the remains of a sheet, that small sign of respect evidence enough that this is Harry Smith. His brother's on the far left, a hunting-knife clutched tightly in skeletal fingers. One side of his skull is destroyed.

"Carter blew his brains out," you say quietly. Beside you, Sam shivers. "Not before getting that knife in the gut. Look."

He's right. The third corpse, in the middle, sports a gaping tear across his abdomen. The gold watch hanging on it's bright untarnished chain identifies him conclusively as Carter. Neither miner could have afforded the ornament. It gleams up at you from it's resting place in his ribcage.

Salt first, then lighter fluid, finally the match, a rhythm as familiar and comforting as the beats of _Immigrant Song. _Meanwhile,Sam drags Peterson over to the fireside to warm him up.

That jacket he's wearing is as thick as your hand is long, and he still hasn't woken up? The pansy.

Course, it could be Carter's fault… but you doubt it.

Sam rejoins you at the head of the cairn, looking down at the burning corpses silently. _Holding the deathwatch for the already dead,_ Caleb once called this part of a hunt, this quiet waiting for the corpse to burn down to ashes and dust.

"His own brother," you murmur, not even aware you said it aloud until Sam sighs beside you.

"Yeah," he says quietly, rubbing at the rust on Carter's pistol for a minute before tossing it into the flames and turning to you.

"Promise me we'll never fight over anything as dumb as that?" he says.

It's on the tip of your tongue to point out that you don't really have a whole lot of _never _left, but then the memory of a conversation held on a highway leaving Maine comes back to whisper in your ear.

_I'm going to save you. __I need to save you. Because you're all that keeps me sane. OK?_

"Woulda thought a girl is the only thing worth fighting over like that," you say cheerfully, and he laughs.

With impeccable timing, Peterson stops any further 'moments' by rolling over with a thump and waking up.

"Wassgonon?" he mutters, clutching at his head.

"Excuse me?" Sam hands him a thermos-cup full of melted snow. He gulps it down gratefully.

At least, you hope he's grateful.

When he's focused enough to actually register who you are, he blanches.

You give him the grin that's had hundreds of principals reaching for the detention slips.

Peterson starts looking for escape routes. "I – uh-"

"You were following us," you say. "In hopes of a story, I suspect. Now I think you'd be lucky to remember the last three hours."

Peterson frowns at you, then transfers his gaze to Sam. "You hit me!" he accuses.

"No, you fell down the hillside," Sam says promptly. "Practically landed on top of us, I might add. I don't know where you get off following hikers through the woods in the middle of February, but I'm sure the sheriff would be even more interested in the answer than I am."

The threat hangs in the air for a long time before the little weasel staggers to his feet and straightens to his full height of approximately five-four.

Pathetic.

"Do I look like the sort of man to be intimidated by a pair of scruffy-looking homeless drifters like you two?" he demands.

"Scruffy-looking?" you object. "These are my new jeans!"

"It's the haircut," Sammy says. "There's something shifty about that haircut."

"Traitor."

"Thief."

"Smartass."

"_Jack_ass!"

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

"As for the other," you say smoothly, turning back to Peterson, who'd just started to back away, "yes, Al, I'd have to say you do look like that sort of man."

Understatement of the year.

On the other hand, the guy's still here, and still facing you, and he has the audacity to say (albeit rather uncertainly), "My story. I'll pay you-"

"No, you won't," Sam tells him calmly.

Peterson looks furious at being turned down so unhesitatingly, but he doesn't offer again, just says, "And how am I meant to get back into town?"

"The same way you came," Sam answers, pointing along the path back to the mine entrance. "You got here by following our tracks, you can go back the same way. It hasn't even snowed, so they should be pretty hard to miss."

"I'm injured and you're sending me off on foot?"

"Well, I'm not carrying you," you tell him, getting impatient. "Take a hike, Peterson."

He actually grins. "I think I'll just stay near the fire for…"

The look on his face when he sees the bodies is almost comical. Then he starts, very slowly, to back away.

The hell. You might as well go for the full-length melodramatic-Hollywood-gangster scene.

"By the way, Al?" you call out to him, and he freezes, simply terrified. "You realise, of course, that we'll know just where to look if any of this ever becomes public knowledge?"

He looks around furtively, as if hoping a battalion of police officers are going to emerge from the undergrowth any minute now, but then nods once, tightly, and sets off as fast as his still-unsteady legs can carry him.

"Melodramatic," Sam observes.

You shrug. "Sometimes there's nothing else to do. We got any chocolate left?"

Sam digs through the rucksack, producing two bars of chocolate and the second thermos of tea. For a long while, you stand watching the flames silently, mulling over the morning's events. Sammy's got that brooding look again, the one he wore all last year. Uh oh.

"Looks like you'll get to see that _Heroes_ marathon, anyway." Sam breaks the silence when he notices your scrutiny, but that's not what's on his mind.

"I thought it was a good idea, you know," you tell him. "College, I mean. You'd always wanted it, after all."

Sam smiles slowly. Absolution. That's what he wants, what he needs, especially after the deal. The reassurance that his big brother doesn't think he's a traitor. That you don't hate him for leaving.

And you don't. You hate him for shutting you out afterwards.

"You know you always said you'd take me to Tijuana for my twenty-first birthday?" he asks, apropos of nothing whatsoever.

"Yeah. Why?" The memory of that long drive to California, only to arrive on the first of May and find his apartment empty, still hurts.

"I went. With some friends. I kept expecting you to show up every time I turned a corner."

Maybe not apropos of _nothing_. You stare at him, then start to laugh. "I went to get you."

"You went – what, you were in Palo Alto?"

You're laughing too much to do anything other than nod.

"You idiot!" Sam exclaims. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming by?"

"Why didn't you tell me you weren't gonna wait for me?" you shoot back. "I was closer to Tijuana than Palo Alto!"

He starts to laugh, too. The snowball hits him in the side of the head, but you're both too tired to have a proper fight, like yesterdays.


	5. won't be home tonight

By the time you get back to town, it's dark, and you're both exhausted. Not even the prospect of a hot shower can distract you from the warm oblivion of sleep: you just shed your still-damp clothes and collapse into bed. Sammy does the same, and within minutes, he's fast asleep.

Once you're sure of that, you let yourself drop off as well.

The next morning, you feel about eighty. Every muscle in your body burns and aches. The hot shower you promised yourself last night takes out much of the sting, but still. And you're ravenous.

"Sam! Hurry up, lets go eat!" you yell through the bathroom door. He comes out a minute later, looking pretty much the way you feel.

"Sounds like a good plan," he agrees. "Then can we rent a few movies or something, and spend the rest of the day in bed?"

You shake your head at him. "Sorry, Sammy. It's TV or nothing."

"No movie rental?" He sounds horrified.

"No movie rental."

"We're in hell."

"Not just yet."

"Not at all if I have anything to say about it," he mutters. You pretend not to hear, just lead the way out of the room. Peterson is out in the parking lot again, climbing onto a fence and waving his useless phone around.

"Use the landline," you call out to him, unable to resist, and snigger when he nearly falls off the fence, looking… alarmed… at the sight of you.

Sam gives you a shove. "Dude. Stop scaring the entertainment."

"Entertainment! He had a gun on me yesterday," you protest.

Sam grins. "Well, yeah."

"Oh, shut up, and lets go eat."

But before you reach the diner, you're ambushed.

"Dean! Sam!"

It's Rick. He runs across the road to meet you; Anna is standing over there with a guy who is, presumably, her husband, and Rick's dad.

"Hey, kid," you greet him cheerfully. "Hows it goin'?"

"I'm good," he says, grinning. "You?"

"Exhausted," Sam tells him. "We went hiking yesterday."

"Cool. Where did you go?"

"Oh, Jim recommended a few routes," you evade the question. "You off to school?"

"Yeah. About to be bored. I hate math."

"We all have our cross to bear," Sammy murmurs, looking amused. Rick frowns at him, not quite having heard the words, but before he can ask, his parents join you.

"You're the young men who helped Rick on Sunday morning?" Principal Heston is young, dark-haired, probably an enthusiastic, idealistic kinda guy. He and Sam ought to get along like a house on fire, then. Nice firm handshake.

"Morning, Principal. Hi, Anna," you greet them. She smiles at you. "Dean. Sam. Listen, my husband and I were wondering… if you're still in town tonight, would you like to come by and have dinner with us?"

How many times in one week can this woman be prepared to feed a pair of total strangers? Even if they did fish her son out of a mineshaft.

But Sam accepts with a charming grin and you give Rick a wave as they get back in their car and drive off.

Then you turn to look at him, silently, one eyebrow raised.

He shrugs. "It's Tuesday. You're not even close to missing the _Heroes_ marathon. Besides, free food."

Isn't that your line?

"Isn't that my line?"

"Not my fault you're too tired to pick up on it."

"Yeah, it is!"

"How so?"

"If you hadn't started that snowball fight…"

"If we go back far enough I think you'll find it was your fault we were on that road in the first place!"

The argument carries you up the street and into a window booth in the diner, where you order the biggest breakfast they've got. So does Sam.

You're contemplating the pros and cons of having pancakes to follow your bacon and eggs when Jim joins you.

"Boys," he says, and something about that laconic greeting in his deep voice reminds you painfully of Dad.

You nod in answer and order the pancakes.

Sam, however, says, "Morning. Why didn't you tell us they were brothers?"

Straight in for the kill. Can't it wait till you've had another coffee?

But Jim smiles sadly. "Yes, I should have known you'd pick up on that. It's almost Shakespearean, ain't it? Our great shame, that the traitor..." he trails off with a sigh. There's a moment's silence before he perks up again. "Anyway. You wanted these, right?"

A list of names, lying between your fresh plate of steaming hot pancakes and the coffee-pot. Jim pours himself a cup.

"Ought to be whiskey," he says. "But it's a little early for that, and I don't think I'll be seein' you boys again."

He raises the mug. "Harry Smith," he says.

"Harry Smith," you and Sammy chorus quietly, and then drink, and Jim leaves as unobtrusively as he came.

The list is still sitting there, glaring at you. You slip it into the pocket of your jacket. Not now. Not this morning. This morning is, just for a few hours, yours, not theirs.

Sam meets your eyes across the pancakes. "Who do you think he is?"

You shrug, but it doesn't fool him. "Dean."

"I did some research while you were in the shower. The people here came from Ireland, originally. There haven't been many others come along."

"You think he's…"

It sounds so silly, but he said it himself, didn't he? He's a storyteller.

"A bard. Maybe. Perhaps. If there still are people like that."

Sam twists in his seat to look after him, thoughtful. "I don't see why not."

* * *

That evening, at dinner, Rick looks both excited and curious. "The police came round the school today," he informs you.

"Oh, really? What for?"

"Arrested half the football team. For a whole load of stuff, people're sayin' assault, and arson, and drug-dealing, and... well, just _loads_ of stuff."

"What do you think?"

"I think half the charges are rubbish," his Dad says, coming into the sitting room. "But certain things have come to light about… misconduct at school. Most of them will end up suspended at the very least. There are one or two that might even get expelled."

Rick told him, you realise.

"Terrible," you say, unable to stop your mouth twitching upwards. Anna doesn't notice. "Yes, isn't it?" she agrees. "It's all the more shocking that they're on the football team! Those kids are supposed to be an example."

"Yeah, they are," Sam agrees.

Rick seems to be biting back a grin. "Not anymore," he comments.

His mother shakes her head at his levity.

"Mike's coming back tomorrow," Rick carries on, ignoring her.

"Should be good," you say. Gotta say _something,_ you figure. Rick is grinning even wider now. "Yeah," he says. "But I think you put me off snowball fights for life."

"Kid," you tell him as Sammy laughs out loud, "me too."


End file.
